Happy Holiday (While the Merry Bells Are Ringing)
by Miss Maudlin
Summary: "You are self-sufficient and independent and courageous." Crane reached out to brush a strand of hair that had fallen from her French twist, his fingers sweeping against her cheek. "But that does not mean you do not deserve care. You deserve to be cherished."
1. 1

#1

Abbie made Crane sit in her living room as she got ready for the police department holiday party. It had been the annual Christmas Party until a year or two ago when a few people complained about the lack of inclusiveness. Abbie couldn't blame them. Christmas held too much weight for her. Holiday party meant nothing specific. Nothing defined. Nothing to bring up memories.

She had picked up Crane from Corbin's cabin earlier that afternoon (although really, shouldn't she call it Crane's cabin now?). Since Crane was sort of part of the department now, she knew it would seem odd if he didn't attend. She didn't want to think it was because she liked his company.

"Miss Mills, I'm not entirely certain why you must take me to your home beforehand," Crane had complained as he bent his body into her car.

"Because this cabin is thirty minutes away from my apartment and I didn't want to drive all the way here and then all the way to the station when I was already so close now."

"I suppose that is logical."

Now Abbie wondered about that logic. She'd turned on Shark Week re-runs for Crane and made him promise to sit still, as he had a tendency to wander and explore and he'd already found too many things on previous occasions. Abbie never wanted to explain the concept of tampons to a grown-ass man ever again.

Lotioning up her legs after shaving, Abbie tried to perch on the toilet to paint her toenails, but the light sucked in her bathroom, and she was getting a cramp in her thigh. She always painted her toes in the living room, her foot pressed against the coffee table. But Crane was in there. Did she want to brave his questions? She screwed the top back on the polish, snagged her bag of mani/pedi tools and wandered out to the living room. She flipped on the overhead light before plopping down next to Crane.

He squinted at the light. He still wasn't used to the brightness of electricity, Abbie knew. He preferred to light a fire in the cabin and only used electric lights when he had to. "Must you turn on that ghastly lamp?"

Abbie stretched her leg out, her left foot on the edge of the coffee table. Untwisting the top of the bottle of polish—Chick Flick Cherry—she separated her big toe from the others. "I need the light to paint my toes," she replied, biting her lip in concentration as she began meticulously painting the nail. Abbie never painted her fingernails—the paint chipped within a day, and she didn't have the money or time to get a gel manicure—but she painted her toenails religiously. It was a girly thing she could still do as a cop without anyone actually knowing.

"'Paint your toes?'"

"Well, my toe_nails_." Abbie glanced up with a small grin. "We're not so far gone in this century to start painting our actual toes."

"Is this a normal activity? Painting ones' toenails?"

Abbie shrugged, but that caused her to swipe the side of her big toe with red polish. She swore before reaching for a q-tip to wipe it off. "Fairly normal, I guess."

"Do men of this century paint themselves like this as well?"

Abbie laughed and missed her nail _again. _"Crane, dammit, you're making me screw up my nails. And no, men don't paint their nails." She thought a moment. "Well, none that I know, at least. Now shut it and let me paint."

Abbie usually found painting her nails rather soothing. This time, however, she found herself acutely aware of Crane sitting only a few feet from her, flexing his hands. She noticed that he tended to do this when he was agitated. She knew his agitation wasn't from the sharks on the TV, munching on unsuspecting prey. Only the sounds of the shark music punctuated the living room, making the scene seem rather dire. _Note to self: don't let Crane hang out when I'm getting ready._

When she finished with her left foot, she glanced up Crane again. He was fiddling with his beard this time, his eyes following her movements.

"Just spit it out, Crane."

Crane glanced back at the TV. "I assume that is another lovely idiom of your time—"

Abbie rolled her eyes.

"—and I shall also assume it may be translated as 'please speak' so I shall speak." He turned his gaze back to her. Well, to her legs. And then he fell silent. And he turned red.

"Crane, I told you. You can ask me anything." This was a lie, but Abbie knew she was a sucker. A sucker and a soft-hearted fool.

"Your legs," Crane blurted. "They are hairless. Why? Do women in this century no longer have hair except on their heads?"

Abbie smiled and stretched her leg, her right foot now on the coffee table. She knew her smooth legs fascinated Crane. She couldn't help but preen a little, right? "We have hair on our legs," she said as she began painting her big toe. "We just shave it off. Or wax it. Or laser it." She frowned a little at the thought. "Actually, it's kind of messed up how much money women spend on removing body hair."

"Where else—"

"No way, I lied. No more questions. Maybe when I'm really drunk I'll tell you about Brazilians."

She could almost hear Crane fluttering his hands. "What does the removal of hair have to do with a Portuguese colony?"

Abbie just sighed.

When she finished with her toes, she turned off the light (to Crane's pleased exhalation) and wandered back into the bathroom. She rolled her hair into a neat French twist instead of leaving it down—one of the few things her mom had ever taught her how to do. She remembered her mom straightening her hair before brushing and twisting it atop her head, her hands gentle as she pinned it. Jenny had never sat still long enough for her mom to do her hair. Jenny was too much of a tomboy, Abbie remembered. Abbie's hair had always been neatly braided, sometimes straightened; Jenny's was a wild mass of curls.

Abbie shook off the memories. Hair done, she set to doing her makeup—nothing heavy, but a little more dramatic for nighttime. She swiped on eyeliner and mascara and some lipstick. Spritzing on some perfume, she wandered to her bedroom to get dressed. The sound of shark week music followed her.

The night was a little warmer than usual for early December, so Abbie didn't worry as much about being cold when she dressed in the crimson bandage dress she had purchased months earlier but hadn't had time or inclination to wear. She didn't dress-up often (she was a cop, when would she have time to dress-up?) but had a weakness for pretty things. Dresses, shoes, jewelry. She would resist their lure but sometimes succumbed, only to have the bits of glamour hidden away in her closet, never to be worn.

Putting on silver stilettos—4 inches, which made her at least of average height—and some earrings and she deemed herself ready to go.

"'Kay, I'm ready," she called to Crane as she walked to the coat closet. It was warm, but not that warm.

Crane turned off the TV (he had an eidetic memory, after all) and followed her. She reached inside for her coat only to have Crane cover her hands. "Allow me." He pulled the black pea coat off the hanger and walked behind her. Abbie felt his body heat as he helped her into her coat. She could've sworn his fingers brushed the back of her neck on purpose.

"Thank you," she murmured. She turned to face him. "Let's go."

Crane didn't move at first. She realized this was the first time he'd ever seen her in a dress. And she was wearing a tight dress. Nothing trashy, but probably shorter and more form-fitting than anything in his day. His gaze followed the line of her dress to her legs before landing on her toes. Her bright red toes. He coughed. "You look well," he intoned to her toes.

She wiggled them. "Thank you."

He coughed again, but wouldn't look up at her. "I shall meet you at your vehicle, yes?" And he left her before she could answer.

Buttoning up her coat and grabbing her purse, Abbie followed him. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

TBC. The show really needs a bit where Abbie dresses up just to see Crane spontaneously combust.


	2. 2

#2

The holiday party at the station consisted of three things: plastic wreaths and garland on every available surface (Wendy loved to decorate); bad food; and booze. Abbie only ever went for the booze. Gin and tonic was her particular drink, although she wasn't against beer or wine if nothing else was available. She didn't make a point to get drunk at these parties, though. She hadn't gotten seriously drunk in years, not since Corbin sat her down in that booth and made her change her life.

Tonight, though, she might break that streak.

When she first arrived with Crane in tow—wearing a bizarre combination of 21st century and 18th century clothing, he would not get rid of that stupid coat—it seemed that most everyone had already started the party. Detectives Jones and Young were already deep in their beers, singing Christmas carols while trying to entice Wendy to dance a dance Abbie couldn't for the life of her recognize. A cross between a bump-and-grind and a waltz. They spun Wendy around and seemed to be humping her at the same time. Wendy just laughed the entire time, enjoying the male attention.

"Lieutenant," (Crane always called her lieutenant when at work, the pronunciation said in his rolling accent) "is that dancing?"

Abbie guffawed as she hung up her coat. Crane followed suit. "Something like that."

Abbie didn't allow Crane to go further on that train of thought, distracting him with the table of booze. Wine, beer, and a lone bottle of vodka seemed to be the order of the night. Abbie sighed, missing her gin and tonic. She should have brought her own. She poured a glass of white wine instead. "Want anything, Crane?"

Peering (or rather, just standing) over her shoulder, Crane studied the variety of bottles. "Is there rum?"

Abbie raised her brows. "Rum guy, huh? Nope, looks like there's wine and beer. Or vodka. Did you have vodka back in the dark ages?"

Crane sniffed. "The 18th century was certainly not part of the Middle Ages, Lieutenant, although I must admit I have never heard of 'vodka' before this time. Is it Russian?" Crane reached around her and with his long fingers snagged a bottle of beer.

"Yeah, it's Russian booze. Can get you wasted real quick."

"Well, then I shall refrain, as I can hardly imagine becoming 'wasted' will be desirable."

"You'd be surprised." Abbie took a sip of her wine, allowing its warmth to curl in her belly. She needed a glass tonight. She then wondered if she should go break up the Jones-Young-Wendy orgy, though—

"Hey, Abbs."

Abbie turned, feeling a combination of exhaustion and dread creep upon her. "Hey, Luke," she replied, also knowing that Crane hung over her shoulder like an obnoxious ghost. Luke was, she had to admit, always well-dressed and handsome. Tonight he wore a dark green dress shirt with perfectly pressed slacks and shiny shoes. She wondered if he had a new girlfriend who had ironed his pants for him, since in all their time together she'd never seen him get the iron out. She wasn't sure if he even knew how to use one.

"Merry Christmas—or I guess, Happy Holidays, right?" Luke nodded. "Crane."

"Happy Christmas, Detective," Crane said in reply. Speaking to Abbie, he added, "I will leave you now, Lieutenant. Excuse me."

Abbie saw him about to bow, but he caught himself just in time. Taking a swig of beer instead—politely and neatly, Abbie had to say—Crane walked towards Irving on the opposite side of the room. She had the stupidest wish he'd stayed.

"Abbs, how are you? I feel like we haven't talked in forever."

Abbie forced herself to look away from Crane, his lanky frame bent towards Irving as he drank his beer. The man had ridiculously large hands. "I'm fine."

Luke sighed. "Come on, we used to be friends—"

"Yes, and that ended—"

"I screwed up! Abbs, I shouldn't have broken up with you over you leaving. I just didn't want to hold you back. I know how excited you were to get into Quantico. But now you're still here and I hate that…" Luke sighed again. Taking her hand, he added, "I miss you."

Abbie felt the weight of everything—of Corbin's death, of the fucking Headless Horseman, of Crane, of Jenny, of the loneliness, _everything_—and suddenly she couldn't find the strength to push Luke away. Luke was a decent guy, she knew. Mostly decent, despite the whole break-up thing. His hand was warm. He smelled good. She always loved how he smelled—mint and a little sandalwood.

"Can we talk somewhere private?"

Abbie found herself nodding and let herself be led away. Well, at least a few feet. Then she pulled her hand from Luke and just followed him. She wasn't much for being pulled along like a child. She also didn't want Crane to see her being pulled along by Luke. (Jesus, what a mess she was in.)

Luke led her to an empty, unlocked office down a hallway. The fluorescent lights of the hallway glared overhead, giving everything and everyone a yellowish, sickly cast. Entering the office, the lights were dimmer. Luke seemed shadowy and corporeal in this light. He leaned against the desk, one hand against the furniture with the other holding his beer. Abbie sat down in one of the chairs opposite him, her feet aching in her stilettos. Pulling off one of the shoes, she began to rub her feet; she felt a blister forming by her pinky toe. Just walking to and from her car and her feet already hurt.

"You never liked wearing heels," Luke said absently as he watched her. He smiled sadly. "You do look good in them, though."

Abbie glanced up. "Can't really wear heels as a cop. I'm lucky to wear a bra with lace once a year." At the look on Luke's face, Abbie knew she'd made a misstep. Probably shouldn't talk about bras with an ex-boyfriend. Christ, she didn't have time or energy for this.

Luke just took another drink of beer.

Abbie pulled off her other shoe and began to rub. "So, what did you want to talk about?" She tried to say it nonchalantly, but she could hear an edge in her voice.

Luke began to peel the label off his beer. "I just wanted to apologize, I guess," he replied. "I shouldn't have broken up with you like that."

Abbie raised a brow. "You mean, over text message the day I was supposed to leave?"

Luke winced. "Yeah, like that. It was shitty."

Abbie raised both brows.

"Okay, fucked up and shitty and horrible." Luke set down his beer on the desk and pulled up a chair in front of her. He took her hands. "I'm sorry, Abbie. Can you forgive me?"

Abbie felt another memory intrude. Her mom's face, asking for her forgiveness after she'd left her and Jenny for days by themselves. _I'm sorry, Grace Abigail, I'm so sorry, I just had to go somewhere for a little while. But I'll never leave again._ Shitty thing was, she always left again. Eventually she never returned.

Abbie wanted to pull her hands away and leave Luke to cry into his beer. She wanted to toss her wine in his face. She wanted to tell him that he was in a long list of people who'd abandoned her and then begged her for forgiveness. But she was in control. _I am in control._

"I forgive you."

Luke sighed and his face split into a smile. "So can we—"

Abbie raised a hand. "I forgive you, but we aren't getting back together. That's over."

Luke returned his hands to his lap. He fell silent, digesting this bit of information. "Is it the Brit?"

Oh, how Abbie did not want to talk about this. The Brit, Crane, Ichabod, her sarcastic fellow Witness who was equal parts politeness and volatility. He was the first person since Corbin who understood her—not just with the whole demon shit—but who just accepted her as who she was and trusted her abilities. Sometimes she wanted to dump his ass back into his coffin, he riled her so much. But other times he made her just feel safe. She hadn't felt safe with someone other than Corbin for a long time. "This has nothing to do with Crane," she said instead. _This has everything to do with him_.

"I see how he watches you, Abbie. Come on, are you hitting that or not?"

Abbie stiffened. She suddenly felt protective of Crane and of her relationship with him—something purer and realer than a quick fuck here and there. She began putting her shoes on, stuffing her toes into the footwear before standing up. "That, Luke Morales," she said in biting tones as she stood over him, "is none of your fucking business. Who I fuck or do not fuck will never be something you need to know." She then stalked out of the office. Luke called after her.

She found herself in the hallway but with no desire to return to the party. How could she go back in there? Instead, she walked in the opposite direction towards one of the emergency exits. Pushing open the metal door, she stumbled outside. She was too angry to notice the cold. Leaning against the brick wall of the precinct, she fought tears.

"Merry fucking Christmas," she muttered to herself as she swiped at her eyes. She wondered if Luke had followed her, but after a few minutes she realized he hadn't.

Luke had been a decent boyfriend, and his sudden desire to break up when she was about to leave had floored Abbie. Up until that point, he had been all gung-ho about their long-distance relationship. _We'll see each other on weekends. I can come up there one weekend and you can come down another. And we can talk every day._ Abbie had (stupidly) believed him. But then the day her life went to hell—Crane, demons, apocalypse—she'd also received a text early that morning from Luke, calling it off. He'd said he didn't want to "hold her back." Abbie knew that was code for "I want to fuck other people."

She should've known better. People always disappointed her.

"Lieutenant, are you well?"

Abbie jumped, only just realizing Crane was standing in front of her.

* * *

FF . net would not let me post this last night, which is very rude. Anyway, thank you for all of the reviews. Just one chapter to go. (Also updated whiskey to rum because I like me some canon.)


	3. 3

#3

"Crane, what the hell, you scared me!"

Abbie closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, her exhalation forming a cloud in the cold air. She opened her eyes to see Crane standing within arm's reach. "Why aren't you inside with everyone?"

Crane raised an eyebrow. "I feel that it is I who should be asking you such a question."

Abbie wondered if she should confess her conversation with Luke. Her chest tightened and her stomach hurt and if she had to admit it, her heart hurt as well. She thought she'd moved on from Luke—from his shitty text message, from his sudden desire to rekindle their relationship—but apparently not. Her feelings jumbled together in a ratty mess, something she couldn't untangle even if she tried.

"I just needed some air, is all," she replied lamely.

Crane's brow remained raised, absurdly rakish despite the situation. "You ventured outside for fresh air but without a coat? That cannot be wise, Miss Mills. You'll catch a chill."

Abbie wanted to stomp her foot, although that would result in her pitching forward as her balance on her stilettos was precarious at best. She wanted to shove Crane away and demand he leave her the hell alone. His presence choked her. His presence overwhelmed her. His presence enveloped her.

"I'm fine." Abbie shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms in a pathetic attempt to stave off the jittering. Her anger had melted away to the point that she suddenly felt the temperature.

"You are cold." Crane took off his coat—his ratty, 18th century coat that he couldn't bear to part with—and pulled it around Abbie's shoulders, muttering, "How could you not be cold? Wearing so little in the way of clothing…" He wrapped Abbie in the wool fabric and brought it together under her chin, his long fingers keeping it closed. It was large enough that it fit more like a blanket than a coat on Abbie's small frame, the fabric reaching to Abbie's knees.

Crane didn't step away, and Abbie suddenly felt so warm that she had no interest in telling him to back away. Their cloudy breaths mingled in the winter air, the faint sounds of Christmas music and laughter filtering around them.

"Thank you," Abbie murmured.

"My pleasure, Miss Mills."

Abbie felt the heat of his hands under her chin, the smell of him—the body wash she'd bought for him and something that just smelled like Crane—and the way his lashes seemed absurdly long. He'd trimmed his beard, his hair in a neat queue, as he called it (he had been greatly offended when she'd called it a _ponytail_.).

"Why are you outside in the cold, Miss Mills?" Crane asked softly. His voice—deep yet lilting, his accent so proper and starchy yet oddly erotic—brushed against Abbie's nerves and set them alight. She wanted to confess all; she wanted to lean into his body, rest her head on his shoulder. She wanted to be weak, for once.

She remembered the Christmas when her mom had left two weeks previously, leaving Jenny and her to make Christmas dinner from canned vegetables leftover in the pantry—corn, kidney beans and green beans—with a piece of Wonder bread for each of them. They had drawn Christmas trees on notebook paper and hung them all over the bare apartment. That had been one of their better Christmases, before they were sent to their first foster home. And always, Abbie had taken care of herself and Jenny. Until the four trees in the woods.

Pulling away suddenly, Abbie said, "I'm fine." She handed back the coat to Crane, but he didn't take it. "Seriously, I'm fine. I can take care of myself." She shoved the coat into his hands and started back toward the precinct. If she let herself stay any longer, she'd say something she'd regret. She'd do something she'd regret.

"Miss Mills—" Abbie found her wrist captured in a long-fingered grip. She slowly pivoted to see Crane staring at her.

"Miss Mills," he said again. "Abbie." He pulled her closer, and Abbie let herself be drawn in. Crane wrapped her in his coat. "I have never doubted your ability to care for yourself," he said, his gaze intense, his voice low.

"Then what are you—"

"You are self-sufficient and independent and courageous." Crane reached out to brush a strand of hair that had fallen from her French twist, his fingers sweeping against her cheek. "But that does not mean you do not deserve care. You deserve to be cherished."

He said it so calmly yet so firmly, no sarcasm or laughter in his voice. Abbie clutched his coat closer around her body and began to tremble. From the cold, from his words—_cherished_—from everything.

"What happened, Abbie?"

Abbie felt tears threaten, hot and persistent behind her eyelids. Tears not just for Luke, but for Corbin, for Jenny, for herself. She never confessed. She never told Jenny when she was scared, or when she saw those trees in the woods, or when she wanted to scream and scream at Corbin's death, or when she woke up from nightmares of demons, alone in her apartment.

"It was Luke," she finally blurted. "He wanted to get back together."

"And you rejected his advances, I take it?"

Abbie laughed a little sob. She swiped at her eyes, hoping she hadn't totally ruined her makeup. "Something like that. You know that he broke up with me the day all this," she waved a hand, "happened. Said we should see other people."

Crane stepped closer. "And you were surprised by this announcement?"

"Surprised?" Abbie rolled her eyes. "Surprised, shocked, fucking pissed, yeah. But he's in a long list of people who've lied and fucked me over and didn't fight for me." Except for Corbin, but he was dead. Abbie wanted to sob.

Crane smiled sadly, and Abbie blushed at the realization. _Jesus, Abbie, you're not the only one who's been fucked over._

"Look sorry, you don't need to listen to me bitch about this." Abbie squared her shoulders and smiled, maybe a little bitterly, if she had to admit it. "I'll survive."

Crane took her hands, enveloping her smaller ones in his larger ones. "Miss Mills, I am no stranger to—how do you say?—being 'fucked over.' And I am sorry your betrothal ended as it did." Crane's eyes were warm, serious, trying to convey what words couldn't. "Your detective was unworthy of you. But know this, Abigail: any decent man would have fought for you." Crane paused. "_I _would have fought for you."

Abbie couldn't speak. Her face heated, her body heated, her heart pounded and she forgot about Luke and her sore feet and the party inside. She forgot about demons and the apocalypse and the constant struggle to survive—survive her childhood and now her adulthood. All she felt was her body heating and her hands warm in Crane's. Ichabod's. So instead, she just laced her fingers with Crane's and gripped them tightly.

It was then that she noticed the snow falling, bits of it from the sky, melting on her hot cheeks like tears. She let herself lean forward into Crane's embrace and laid her head on his shoulder. He brought one arm around her and held her closely, an embrace and a promise.

"Merry Christmas, Ichabod," she murmured. It was all she could say.

Crane rested his chin on top of her head. "Merry Christmas, Abigail."

* * *

Sorry for the delay! This is why I normally do one-shots because I have the attention span of a squirrel.

Also, I don't think of Luke as a bad character, but I needed conflict, so Luke was sacrificed to the Conflict God. Sorry, Luke!


End file.
